Light Up The Sky: The 30th Hunger Games
by bobothebear
Summary: 'And as the first torch lit with its fiery licks and sadistic swirls, the world around me detonates in a conflagration so vast, so powerful, life before the flames becomes but a memory.' Closed.
1. I'll Be Gone, Part One

_"Let the sun fade out and another one rise,_

_Climbing through tomorrow, I'll be gone."_

* * *

**Jon Kohl**

**Victor of the 5th Hunger Games**

* * *

**Year of the 29th Hunger Games**

* * *

She's nearly out. Out of the hands of those who never should've touched her, out of the hellhole that no child of mine should've ever endure, yet they did. Both of them.

Clio Kohl is nearly out of the Hunger Games. Out of the Games that killed her brother, Roan six years ago. A sad coincidence, they'd say as my daughter narrowly survived the bloodbath and the sick bastard from One that'd speared both of her allies. How unfortunate, they'd say.

I, of all people, know what unfortunate is. Unfortunate is being cheated on by some puppy-loving sweetheart. Unfortunate is catching a cold on holiday.

Having your family ripped away from you after fighting and killing for your life is far past unfortunate.

But there's nothing I can do to fight the tides of fairness anymore. I can't go in there and protect Clio as she sleeps; I can't watch her back when the finale that is slowly encroaching takes place. I'm useless now, like I'd been for the twenty-something years I've screwed up Clio's life.

But I'm trying. To save her as best as I can.

For days upon days, I'd remained at the Mentor's Cavern, spending sleepless nights watching every tribute in a ten mile radius of my daughter; the last person I cling onto my sanity for. My wife and my son, ripped away from me, left me and my broken shell with only Clio to rely on.

I don't dare wonder what I'd do without her.

And slowly but surely, it happens. First, the gunshots. The battle-field themed arena had been kind to the tributes the past few days, gracing them with peaceful nights that'd been nonexistent in days previous. After adapting to the silence, even I, in my sleepy stupor, let out a yelp as the first round of bullets splay across the open field.

Clio groggily jolts up, yanking her sickle and the remainder of her meager supplies before bolting westward, where the bullets are leading her toward. I steal a glance across the round table, where Azure sits. Her tribute, Celesto of Three, an unobtrusive boy that poisoned his allies the previous day, perks up and sprints toward the same destination: the Cornucopia.

And to my left, Pasiphae Jacoby flexes her fingers with a smug smirk plastered across her face. Crest of One, already seated in at his throne at the Cornucopia, twirls his voulge playfully as he awaits the others. The snarl that settles in on my face comes naturally; the Careers have no respect from me. Not after killing my son and the number the kid from One pulled on my leg in my year. Instinctively, I roll my ankle under the table, feeling the toes of skin rub against the toes of metal.

The first shout pulls me out of the daze; Celesto reaches the Cornucopia and, visibly shaken, brandishes his twin switchblades. Crest heartily laughs as he masterfully spins the voulge, eyeing the younger boy with a predatory sneer.

And without a moment's break after, he charges out for Celesto. Within seconds the monstrous boy is upon him, striking and swinging only to have the other parry. A dignified roar erupts from his throat, and with it, comes the strength and lethality that marks each and every Career.

As he swings once more, he leans forward and striking out with his arm to the younger boy's wrist. Within a matter of seconds, Celesto is disarmed. And as he assesses the situation, he flees, sprinting down the path he'd came, but it was clear now. He was finished. Crest chuckled as he sent the first knife into Celesto's back, the next, readying to fire, and -

I gasp as the colossal boy collapses, the knife that was previously readied to fire, lodged in the form of the shocked boy. As quickly as the horror of the newfound player filled me, the relief comes. Clio, always the cunning one, has done the impossible.

The boy's cannon resonates across the arenaand I rise, tears welling in my eyes as Clio bursts into tears. And once again, just as quickly as the relief filled me, the horror returns. Because Celesto has charged Clio from behind, and plunges the very knife that pierced his chest into hers.

And she falls.

Unlike Crest, Clio isn't pierced cleanly through the trachea or the heart or her brain. The blade impales her lung, and as blood seeps through, the tears of happiness morph into remorse, pain. Above all, fear of the unknown. She faces the sky as Celesto whoops as loudly as he can muster with the injury that only appears to have missed his bones and organs. In spite of this, Clio uses her dying breath. For him.

"It's okay," she murmurs as she coughs, blood spurting out of the corner of her mouth.

The cannon rings out as her chest exhales its final, wheezing breath.

For what feels like ages, I relive the scene over and over again, the fact not registering. Clio won! She had just won; she'd done it! She has to have done it; I-I need my Clio, and she won, for me!

I have to force myself to inhale and exhale, but somewhere along the way, the sobs take over, and breathing becomes neither natural nor important. I collapse to my knees, landing with a thud to the unforgiving iciness of the tile floor beneath me. Everything slows and I hear it over and over again: her words, gargled through bloody gasps, talking to me, accusing me, turning everything back to me.

Abandoning me.

What happens next doesn't feel like it's in my control. The anger that should be directed nowhere but the Capitol morphs into a petty sense of jealousy as Azure hoots in victory. Instincts draw my hands to the glass as Claudius proudly announces the murderer's name like he deserves anything less than death by execution. I feel the twitch that draws back memories of yesterday that I'd that I'd purged of, but I push them away, letting the feeling come alive.

And just like it did those twenty-four fateful years ago, the sound tunes out, and all I hear is the static. The static of the electricity not knowing where it's destined to go, without a purpose. The screams follow shortly thereafter. Dully, I feel the vibration of the high-pitched yell against me and the blurry wail of sirens.

As the Peacekeepers storm in, slamming me hard against the floor, only then does the sound register, of the sirens in true form, blaring from below. Of Pasiphae, screaming and yelling, bewildered like I'd never seen the she-devil before. Bile races up my throat as I tilt my chin toward Azure.

Azure, who gurgles as blood oozes out of the glass shards that skewer the skin of her jugular.

Azure, who mouths hauntingly slowly to me.

_Why? _

And just like always, I feel the remorse blossom, but this time, this time pride overshadows it.

_It's okay, Clio. Daddy's going to try and fix things, don't you worry. Look at the head start he's gotten already?_

* * *

**_Welcome, everyone, to Light Up The Sky! _**

* * *

**_Yes, this is Blood Splatter's sequel, and yes, eventually, it will reveal the victor of Blood Splatters as soon as that's resolved. But for the most part, you don't need to have read Blood Splatters to understand Light Up The Sky._**

* * *

**_Open Submissions are a joy, aren't they? They open today, whenever that is that you've read this, to the 31st of May -Saturday. Yes, a large time period, but what with Finals and Blood Splatters still on its last legs, I doubt anyone is mourning too badly. _**

**_More guidelines, specifically on tributes, are posted on my profile, and I highly suggest reading them. And for the love of cheese, use THAT form and not some other. Please complete it in its full, as well._**

* * *

**_Reviews, do we need them? Well. Yes. They help me know who's still here, and who's not. No, one measly missing review doesn't mean I'm going to set a pitfall on the way to the Capitol for your tribute, but I'm inclined toward those who are reviewing._**

* * *

**_Thank you, and, cliche time, May the odds be ever in your favor!_**


	2. I'll Be Gone, Part Two

"_When the lights go out and we open our eyes,_

_Out there in the silence, I'll be gone"_

* * *

**Celesto Rollins**

* * *

**Victor of the 29****th**** Games**

**Year of the 29****th**** Games**

* * *

The growing mob of paparazzi and concerned Capitol idiots have enough sense to drop their vacuous trinkets and part way for us as the car parks in front of the massive and admittedly beautiful building. Had it been any other day, the neon hues on a canvas of black and white would've been mesmerizing, but today, even my mind is elsewhere.

As Quinn shuts the limousine's door behind me, the crowd parts enough for us Victors to make out the name of the building, which is written in colossal black letters across the building. The Justice Center of Panem, Capitol Branch.

Any half-witted moron from Panem would know that only the Capitol Branch accomplishes anything as corruption runs freely throughout the districts. Any half-witted moron also knows that today is the final verdict of a four-month hearing, from the date of it being arranged to this bloody day.

The name of the infamous defendant? Jon Kohl.

My attention is hardly divided by the incessant cries of reporters and the flashes of their cameras. Thankfully, others take the brunt of the interrogation the rest of us face. Mags and Silicus solemnly answer the questions the reporters throw at us as the doors of the massive building swing open.

"This place smells too much like home," Lambert of Seven mutters to my right, inhaling the familiar scent of pine. "Or am I going insane from stay in this hellhole four months overdue?"

"No, it smells like your shitty trees," Argeliba of Six says with a toss of her hair. "Although your mental stability can't be too great based off the empty space in your brain."

"Both, then," Brit bites back with a smirk. The banter goes on and on, as it does with this pack of mongrels from Hell. Had I the choice, I would have attended alone, but alas, President Quinn suggested a more… ceremonial feel to today. The end of an era should be presented as such, she had said.

Shortly afterwards, the seats we had for the start of this hearing have been reserved yet again. We, of course, have the front row, and minutes after the first row is lined with Victors of each district - bar Eleven - the reporters and newspapermen follow in. Twelve minutes short of half-noon, the jury of thirteen situates themselves and two minutes afterward, the judge follows suit.

As the chimes of noon ring throughout the city in all its glory, Jon Kohl, shackles and all, is dragged out into open court.

His demeanor is the same as it had been when trial began; he looked rugged physically and more so mentally. Bits of musical laughter weren't uncommon, even during trial, and outbursts were so numerous, I've began to lose track of the ones from this week alone. As he's done every day of this hearing, Jon Kohl glares at me throughout the ridiculous parade the Peacekeepers yank him through.

And as I've done every day of this hearing, I smile at him.

Guilt has never been an issue for me; the Game was played as it was. Jon Kohl has seemingly forgotten that not every tribute is like the sniveling coward his daughter was. Not every tribute has the competence of a toddler and the intuition of a goldfish. Clio had the opportunity to claim the crown, but she let herself down in rushing in her haste to escape; a fatal mistake.

Is it my fault for punishing her? Jon Kohl has no one to blame but himself for not raising the twat to be anything but inept, as well as the twat herself.

Trumpets blare - an exhilarating new addition to the daily routine – and the judge in all his wrinkly, electric blue glory rises, his courtroom following suit. The judge sits himself down shortly afterwards, clearing his throat before proceeding.

"Does the prosecution have any further evidence against Mr. Kohl?"

"No, sir."

"Does the defense have any further evidence supporting your client?"

"The defense rests, your Honor."

The judge raises an eyebrow, but nods. "A fifteen minute recess, then, before the verdict." He turns to Jon, raising an authoritative hand to silence the movements in the room. "May the odds be in your favor, Mr. Kohl."

"He forgot the 'ever'," Cynthia says with a giggle as the crowd rises, nearly in perfect unison. The posse of reporters breaks into chatter and gossip the second the chamber doors swing open.

"Not everything has to be about the damn Games," Holland breathes, loud enough only for those surrounding her to make out. "I swear, that girl needs an off button."

"You don't have to live with her," Armia hisses, gently massaging her temples. It's no secret that she's among the few supporting Jon; Two and Eleven have an odd relationship in and out of the Games, which Armia and Jon epitomize ever so clearly. The press and the general population are against Jon - and therefore her - and the toll is visible on the formerly snarky Victor.

I hold back a scoff. There are two sides to every coin, of course.

The crowd, Victors included, mull around, anticipation clear in their movements. Fifteen minutes for the jury to discuss any last-minute decision switches is a century for the courtroom, which doesn't end at the physical boundaries of these walls. The whole of the country is now split, forever bound to the court case that has spilled past the Capitol and into the districts.

And so, as the Peacekeepers reopen the doors, it's no surprise the fight to the seats is a blood sport. A mad dash to the seats resolves itself in no more than two minutes, leaving the crowds shaking in angst as the judge rises.

"On the counts of murder in the first degree and assault in the second, how does the jury find?"

And although the break between the question and the answer was minute – a dozen seconds, at most – years pass in the seats. And in my seat, Jon Kohl meets my gaze, as accusing and livid as ever, and he mouths words I've yet to stop seeing on replay.

I've made things right.

"We find the defendant, Jon Kohl, guilty on all charges."

* * *

**A/N: Before anything else is said, I want to say thank you for any and all who submitted, and those who didn't, and even those who support me silently, from the shadows. Even for the Lurkers, I'm very grateful.**

**The decisions I'd made today were heartbreaking, and I'll admit, one tribute was switched hours ago. I apologize for the late post, but here you have it, Light Up The Sky's Tribute List!**

* * *

**Which of the tributes stands out, for better and for worse? **

* * *

**District One- Luxury**

Pstika Crest,_ (Vulkodlak)_

Ceira Villaine, _(Cashmere67)_

**District Two- Masonry**

Xander Lutz, _(Aspect of One)_

Laela Galis, _(LokiThisIsMadness)_

**District Three- Technology**

Caleb Markland, _(Burning Stars)_

Evangeline Tevent, _(Willowing)_

**District Four- Fishing**

Adrian Clermont, _(Carrie)_

Aldora Perrone, _(Sunlight Comes Creeping In)_

**District Five- Power**

Sullivan Durham, _(jessicallons-y)_

Krynne Harper, _(Chaos In Her Wake)_

**District Six- Transportation**

Rian Shanter, _(Atashi Desu)_

Sia Aether, _(nevergone4ever)_

**District Seven- Lumber**

Porter Wayne, _(Nrrrd-Grrrl-Meg)_

Naomi Callahan, _(Call Me Fin)_

**District Eight- Textiles**

Zeph Tate, _(hey-finn)_

Sienna Lapsus, _(our midnight starlights shine)_

**District Nine- Wheat**

Chandler Kennewick, _(Elim9)_

Briar Thompson, _(Predivan)_

**District Ten- Cattle**

Leon McLeod, _(jacob1106)_

Keighly Lange, _(jakey121)_

**District Eleven- Agriculture**

Dewey Farelli, _(Nothing-Is-Real)_

Pomme Emerson, _(BamItsTyler)_

**District Twelve- Coal**

Kyung Jang, _(Choi Junhoung)_

Memrie Delano, _(DomiHearts1497)_

* * *

**Happy June! Welcome to Light Up The Sky! Acceptance PMs are being sent as of...now! The blog is on my profile!**_  
_


	3. Say Something

_"Say something, I'm giving up on you."_

* * *

**District Two**

**Cynthia Lorenzo, Victor**

* * *

My fifteen minutes of fame are not over.

The glitz and glam of today revolves around the chutzpah from Three or the delusional – and dead – idiot from Eleven, but once the dust clears up, they'll remember that I am the valiant warrior of Panem. I smile at the picture of myself, adorned in the finest armor, riding off to battle injustice. Of course, the frilly summer dress I've been shoved into destroys such a fantasy. Reapings are a fantastic event, but not a petty one; the premise of a ball that these uniforms create absolutely ruins the occasion.

"Ms. Lorenzo, looking as silly as ever. This stone-walled hell needs a makeover, does it not?" I scoff. Before even my duty to the Capitol, I am the valiant warrior of District Two. Nothing and no one harbors hatred or criticism of my district without dying shortly thereafter.

The speaking bastard before me deserves naught to be the honorable escort of District Two, had it been my choice, I'd have his tongue cut out and hanging on my fireplace, but President Quinn works in mysterious ways. And in those ways, Cadevon Artois is my makeshift commander until I step foot in the Capitol The millisecond the Training Center is in view, the escort is out. I've never needed a reason to be excited to reenter the city, but Cadevon offers plenty had it been required.

Sadly, not all of the honored - even in the Capitol - know their place.

"Mr. Artois, looking as horrid as ever. And if anything needs a makeover, it's - " I gesture cheerfully towards him. "This. Nice nose job, hon. Now we just need to fix…the rest." Cadevon gives me his signature eye-roll before rising, dusting off the nonexistent dust on his ludicrous getup.

"Do call when you have something intelligent to spit out of that nasty excuse of a face, dear. Oh, what a shame it is District Two got stuck with you. Armia and Cobble were doing so well without your presence." He gives his blue locks a shake, smiling. "Oh, and there they are. The Victors of Two." Artois throws a glare in my nodding, nodding toward Armia and Cobble before heading off the stage to prep for his 'glamorous' stage entrance.

"What did that one want?" Armia mutters, massaging her temples. Jon's persecution and lovely execution had put Armia on edge; something that was clear on the aging woman's face.

"To discuss Capitol fashion with moi, the fashion leader," I retort, earning myself a chuckle from Cobble. Armia flashes a hint of a smile. "Do get some intel on what's hot and what's not in the Capitol, you two. And no couch sex!"

Cobble guffaws, and Armia struggles to muster the seriousness to answer. "Oh, how about you get the intel yourself, Cyn? I need a break from him." I quirk an eyebrow; the two practically died from laughter at my request to mentor last year, but now she hands it to me?

"Must be from all that couch sex," Cobble rushes, sensing the doubt in my eyes. A nervous laugh bubbles from Cobble's mouth as he tries to fill the silence.

In fact, there had been…such deeds, but before I can either comment on the Dirty Days or Armia's secession, Cadevon's yelling and barking, barely audible over the cries of the trainees. "Well, we'll do whatever when we come back – and, hey, you could even watch, Cynthia. Chop-chop!"

Cobble hustles me into a seat just quickly enough to catch Cadevon teasing the crowd with hovering over the girls' bowl. "Take who you want, just don't ask questions about her. Not yet." Armia, to my heart, covers her ears to block out the screeches.

"There'll be questions, don't you worry," I return, but neither of us are focused on it right now. We're both looking for our Victors.

Cadevon doesn't make it halfway through the name of some fourteen or fifteen-year old before the crowd parts, letting a fiery-haired girl into the open aisle. "I volunteer," she says. It's more of a statement than the usual assertion, like she's stating her name.

I'm on the verge of acknowledging Cobble's selection of volunteer for her intuition and class until a smaller girl, closer to the stage, squeaks the same two words. The composure of the redhead is lost as she pounces at the girl, taking a swing at her back and slamming her into the concrete. The resonant crack is followed by the cries of the younger girl, who looks thirteen at the oldest, but the redhead pays no mind.

She swings the microphone into her hand, raising the other sky-high. "I am Laela Galis, and District Two, I will bring us to the glory we so rightly deserve!" The response is overwhelming; wolf whistles, screams, and everything in between blares as Laela throws a smirk at Cadevon, who distastefully receives the microphone from Laela.

A small grin blooms on my face. If anyone can irk Cadevon, well, they're good in my books. That creature deserves more than irking, but I'll settle for that much.

"And the boys!" Cadevon declares, deciding against teasing the crowd of feisty, hormonal, and obviously ferocious teenagers before him. Cadevon doesn't get the time to speak before the chosen volunteer is halfway up the stage.

Unlike Laela, he does not break composure. Hell, he doesn't have it to begin with.

"Move it, bitch," he sneers, shoving Laela slightly as he snatches the microphone out of Cadevon's hands. Laela scowls with an interesting mix of admiration and disgust, one that mirrors the look on my face, undoubtedly. Audacious, I'll give him that.

"You haven't - "

"Yeah, yeah, I volunteer, happy, dipshit?" The gleam in his eyes depicts emotions of not anger or bloodlust, but one of rough edges, masked by irritation. Audacious and interesting. "Xander Lutz, your newest volunteer, how special, aren't I? Just like every year." I bite my tongue that lives to beat some respect into him, but I have a while to do that, on the train and in the Capitol.

"So I suppose you want the girl," Armia jokes, jabbing an elbow into Cobble. "Have fun with potty mouth."

"Actually, I'd like to be the one to clean his mouth with soap, if you don't mind," I ponder aloud. Cobble raises an eyebrow, chuckling.

"Have him! I've got enough sass with this one alone," he responds, nodding to Armia, who punches him with pleasure.

I let the two of them bash each other as I watch Xander and Laela depart. Laela, already draping an arm around the Peacekeeper who escorts her, and Xander, laughing it up with a Peacekeeper.

I smile, if only slightly, before putting on the neutral expression I'm infamous for as I watch them, already convincing the Peacekeepers how original and unique they are.

Manipulative. Cunning. Sly.

Just like myself.

* * *

**District Five**

**Ari Corbin, Educator **

* * *

"It'll be fine, Ma," Griffin reassures me, massaging my shoulders in a vain attempt to calm me down. "Lucas'll be fine, he's only got one lousy slip in there." The soothing tone in his voice only fuels the angst boiling inside of me, but I contain it with minimal difficulty. One thing pain is good for is learning to shelter yourself, build walls that only protect you from getting hurt again.

"Thank you, Griffin," I sputter, rising too quickly and shoving his arms off me. The hurt look on my son's face tampers with my anguish, but the guilt isn't enough to keep me from pacing and worrying. "I'm better, see? You go, go find Lucas and make sure he's alright," I murmur, tapping my fingers ravenously against my dress. "I'll be ready soon, I promise."

Griffin - nineteen, now, free from the Reaping - relents, calling for Lucas as he bounds up the stairs in search of his younger brother. I harshly grip the wooden frame of the chair beside me, clutching onto it for dear life as I have in times of distress. Only this time, I don't have Oshan to tell me it's going to be okay, I've pushed away Griffin and I've scared the living hell out of Lucas.

I've isolated my grief and pain to myself and my work only.

And for the first time, work is bringing something besides relief from stress. It brings more. During the time when hell seemed easier and safer than reality, my kids were there for me, not Lucas and Griffin, but the kids at school. I'd locked Lucas and Griffin away from me for their own safety and I've tossed the key away ages ago.

No, the so-called 'rabid' children brought me joy when I'd forgotten what joy was, what it felt like, how it made me feel. And even if that was one measly class of hundreds upon hundreds solely in District Five, it does my soul justice to know I've changed them as well.

So as guilty as it makes me feel, I'm not as worried for Lucas as I should be, not in the slightest. The fact that children I've just met this year take precedence to my son haunts my every breathing thought. The logical part of me tells me it's because his odds are so low, but deep down, I know it's because it's the others I'm more worried about.

My kids, all twenty-one of them. The people who pulled me up when I fell down as my husband wasted away our money and our lives. I can't bear the thought of losing even one. Not one of my saviors, anyone but them.

Even Lucas.

"Ma?" a tentative voice whispers from across the room. I hastily wipe away the tears I hadn't known I had shed before pulling Lucas into a hug. "Ma, why are you crying?"

"I'm fine, Luke, I'm fine, just scared," I murmur into his hair. "For you," I add, paranoia telling me to assure him it's him I'm worried for.

"S'okay, Ma, I'll be okay. And even if I do get reaped, I'll win; I'm strong, see?" He flexes his incredulously minute muscles as I clap along, laughing. I make out Griffin's figure at the door, smiling sadly at our encounter.

"That's right," I say, pulling him into one last hug. "Now let's get you to that Reaping."

Griffin holds the door for a cheerful Lucas and nods at me as I pass him. The walk to the Square is light and bubbly as Lucas explains why he thinks we have stars. "Pretty sure it's because the Sun has like, a bunch of little pieces that rest at night in their own bedrooms before getting back together in the day, right?"

I smile, but it almost feels foreign, to actually talk to my son instead of coming into his bedroom at night and kissing him on the forehead as he snores the night away. Guilt seizes me again for this. Griffin responds instead, not so much as denying Lucas's theories but stating less ridiculous ones. By the time it's time for Lucas to go off, the two are laughing about how the Moon must be the Sun's evil twin.

"Good to see he's still the same boy," I say to my feet as Lucas runs off. Griffin visibly twitches and I know he wants to chew me out for not being there, but he's too sweet to bark at me. He just nods.

Funny thing is, I want him to yell at me, to accuse me for everything I've done wrong, to try to get me to actually go home and live with my family. I guess we truly never see eye to eye. Before long, the mayor gives his two cents and introduces the escort before taking a seat.

I don't bat an eye at the entity that walks up to the stage; nothing fazes me much, to be fair, and a feathery woman isn't much of a start. "Greetings!"

The population of Five, bless their souls, is silent. Feathers, as I've dubbed her since how many ever years the creature has escorted here, takes it as a sign to keep it moving and she's dipping her…talons, right? Yes, she's dipping her talons into the girls' bowl while she makes small talk to the crowd whose only response is silence.

"Well, Five, our girl is… Krynne Harper!"

I gasp, feeling my heart drop to my feet as Krynne, light-hearted, determined, beautiful Krynne is singled out quickly and easily, surrounded by a squadron of Peacekeepers. She kicks out, screeches, and even scores a nasty bite on one's arm. Against my better judgment, I find myself cheering her on. Before long, the rest of District Five. We're proud to have a fighter.

A flare fired into the sky silences the uprising as Krynne is unceremoniously dumped onto the stage, trying to escape to no avail. Her reddened, tear-stained eyes meet mine through the crowd as Feathers goes off to the boys.

Her gaze is shattered, afraid, everything Krynne never was, but as I search, I can feel her in truth, still determined with the fire that drove her and drives her still.

I can only hope it remains that way.

Before I can hope for the boys' safety, Feathers has her hand victoriously holding a slip. Jayce. Karter. Avis. Sullivan. Oker. Kenton.

Lucas?

"Our boy is…Sullivan Durham! Come on down, Sully!"

_Sullivan_. The ability to breathe is stolen from me as I buckle down to my knees. Griffin's worried words go without notice as Sullivan convulses, tearfully shoving away the Peacekeepers that go for his arm. Choked up, but still as independent as ever, Sullivan meets Krynne at the stage where they hug, far past handshakes.

My vision begins to blur, and I only make out Feathers' words distantly.

"What a wonderful pair! Give it up for Sullivan and Krynne! The odds just weren't in their favor, now were they?"

* * *

**District Nine**

**Icarus Caltier, Escort**

* * *

Truly, District Nine is an enchanting place. Golden strands of wheat blossom and dance in the eternal, cooling breeze that sweeps the District. Even though Ten is the stockyard of Panem, animals of every sort flock through the field surrounding the square. It's picturesque and perfect to every extent of the word.

Now, if only the people could match such a scene.

I scowl as a child wails in the distance, faint yet painfully clear from my seat on the podium. Insolent idiot! The eloquence and class of the Capitol has rubbed naught against the bristling behemoths doing nothing more than wasting the oxygen of this place. Even at my old age, I have the civility any common man would have, not to mention the brashness of the women.

A migraine blossoms just from thinking about the imbecilic population.

"Icarus," a warm feminine voice begins.

"Now, missy, you shall refer to me as - "

"Icarus, since it's what you've always told me to call you." I quirk an eyebrow, ready to slap some sense into this whore before I recognize the innocent grin plastered onto her peachy cheeks.

"Arly, my dear, forgive me," I say, rising into a hug with the only courteous being born and raised in this hellhole. "How are you and Orson holding up what with all the drama in the Capitol as of late?"

"We're fine," Arly assures, brushing her hair like my daughter would. "We try not to associate ourselves with drama unless the situation calls for us specifically. And I try not to associate myself with him," she adds with a smirk.

"There's my girl," I coo, tousling her hair playfully. "Say, where is Marshall? With which poor girl is he assaulting now?"

"Icarus," Arly says, a warning tone in her voice. "Play - "

"Nice, yes, sweetheart, I've heard it before." The pair of us laugh, on the verge of reminiscing to the point where it could almost redeem Nine for being the house of animals it is. Almost.

"Speak of the devil," I mutter, ushering Arly to the side as Orson Marshall, consecutive Victor to Arly, grins at me, painfully sweet a smile.

" - And he doth appear. Giovanni Torriano, 1666. Oh, but must've known that, you old bag of bones, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," I return, indignant.

"Good to hear," Orson says, smirking. "Oh, when you get to hell, make sure you book me a room. I would do it myself, but you'll be there so much earlier; you could get me a nice room with windows and all that."

I bite my tongue as Orson heads off, Arly chastising him in tow. Good. Let the girl teach the buffoon a thing or two. The prospect of getting him out of the Capitol forever makes me actually approve interacting with one of the heathens getting reaped if it means getting another Victor.

But of course, it's not like any of the imbeciles could actually win.

I don't bother shaking the thought away; the truth is only going to make me reasonable and honest and that's the truth. Nine has nothing on the likes of One, Two, Four. Hell, even Seven is far superior. I'm not granted the time to continue badmouthing Nine in my head, however; the mayor, always to the point and concise, wraps up his speech in record time, introducing me to lackluster applause.

Not surprising. I wouldn't be shocked if the pack of buffoons don't even know how to clap.

"Before we begin," I announce profoundly, "may I condemn the lot of you for the disgusting condition the people this town houses." The outcries and barks go unnoticed to my ear as saunter to the girls' bowl. Let them bark, let them call for murder, repeal; at the end of the day, I am the one with the power in my hands. My hand dips into the bowl, clutching a handful and I fling them at the enraged crowd, watching the children frantically search the names for theirs.

Like the pathetic vermin they are, they rely on me and my mercy.

Finally, one slip feels right; it has an aura of pain that this district so rightly deserves. I fish it out, unfolding it hastily as I snatch the microphone off the podium. "Briar Thompson!"

The hysterical group of children at the front parts for a tiny little girl. Of course, the district, as pathetic as it is, offers me nothing more than a toddler. I am not a babysitter! "You will die, you slimy bitch!" I hiss just loud enough for her to hear, finger accusingly curved towards Briar's shivering frame, as if it was winter in the Capitol and not summer in this hellhole.

Her sobs continue to irritate me through my journey to the boys' bowl, filled to the rim with heathens and ne'er-do-wells that await punishment for their voracious actions.

Now, I do not waste time in selecting the chosen idiot; the first slip speaks of a grim life ready to be made worse, tenfold. "Chandler Kennewick!"

Again, the sea of pre-teens at the front opens for a young boy with dark skin and piercing eyes. Never have I seen a imbecile – especially one of such a young age – not burst into tears after being Reaped, but my respect requires more than the ability not to cry at the honor of a shot at redemption in the Games.

"Shake hands," I hiss, roughly yanking Chandler up the remainder of the stairs as he ascends into a sloppy handshake with Briar, who continues to sniffle and choke for air. Once again, outcries of injustice and mishandling of children are barked; can you believe that? That these hooligans, holding their own children captive, accuse me of wrongdoing?

It doesn't amount to much anyway; my attention does not waver for these mongrels.

A mutt, no matter how savage, will bow to its master.

* * *

**District Twelve**

**Clark Ginnas, Peacekeeper**

* * *

"Gina, be a good girl and fetch Auntie Beaurecross a glass of water, won't you?" I ask with the high-pitched, child-speaking voice I've acquired against my will after spending so much time with the little one. Gina squeaks, pumping her arms through the Square to the nearest market.

"She's precious," Holland says, adoration clear in her eyes. A hint of warning flickers in her expression; she knows better than to get attached to anyone, but I suppose a five-year old wouldn't be the worst person to trust. Even I've relented, letting her sit in on our last meeting last week.

The two of us stroll carefully through the streets, eyeing for the telltale mechanical whir of a peeping camera. No such noise intrudes our conversation, but neither of us concedes until we're clear of town. "The next shipment of Capitol supplies should roll in next week."

"I trust you to divvy it up well," Holland comments authoritatively. "Do as much as you can whilst the Games continue; the Capitol's attention won't be on here while the kids are bashing each other's skulls in."

"I do hope you censor yourself in front of my niece when I'm not there," I jest, gaining a half-grin from Holland.

"I try, but I promise nothing."

"Reassuring, maybe she'll grow up to be a dimwit like you!" This earns me a punch, and I rub the to-be bruise, pouting. "No need to be hurtful."

"Aw, did I hurt the dimmer dimwit's feelings?"

The two of us share a laugh, which, after the hell we've been through the past few years, is a blessing in and of itself. This is why, against all odds, I'm grateful that I was selected to work with Holland, for she's serious and solemn when it's called for, and doesn't have a stick up her ass when it's not needed.

Eventually, we go back to business, plotting out the future of Twelve as something more than a roach under the Capitol's hell, but it's grim at best. Everything is grim when the enemy's armory is larger than your army.

But it's not all about the numbers we have right now; it's about building something strong enough to mean something tomorrow, the next day, the next decade. It's about making something that won't be roadkill, even if it means sacrificing ourselves.

So as hopeless as it feels, we keep trying. Holland and I - as well as a handful of others trustworthy enough not to turn us in for a quick buck - are all in this together.

The whistles of the rest of the Peacekeepers go off, signaling the beginning of the Reaping. "Duty calls," we mutter in unison, grinning afterwards.

"Seeing as I won't see you 'til afterwards, do try not to get persecuted while I'm out," Holland teases, twisting her bracelets around her wrist.

"I could say the same for you," I return, grinning. Holland gives a quick nod before heading out to the stage, with me following closely behind.

The precession is quick and painless, as Holland had suggested to Mayor Canary. The Treaty of Treason is sped through and he even leaves out the mention of Holland herself, a touch of my own. Why draw attention to the face of change when it isn't necessary?

Unfortunately, the chirpy escort, whatever her name is, didn't get the memo. Squealing and taking her good ol' damn time, she squeals over how 'adorable' the Mayor is before preceding to run through the crowd, tugging ears and blowing kisses like some overrated rock star.

The Capitol has hit a new low.

"Hello Tw-Twelve," she squeaks, gasping from the fatigue of running about twenty yards, if I'm to be fair. "Let's get started, yeah!"

Skipping to the bowl, Little Miss Bubbly daintily plucks a strip from the top of the pile and, like a child on its birthday, she squeals excitably. "Memrie Delano, gals, make a move!"

My line of sight picks up a girl buckling to her knees before quickly rising, shouldering away the hand of a boy with a polite smile. The Peacekeepers that rush her are surprised as she crooks her arm into the first one's, as if she's being escorted down her marriage aisle instead of being dragged to her impending death.

Holland purses her lips as the girl with the weak smile – Memrie, I assume - stumbles, fumbling to hold onto the impressive composure she's held. A very select few of District Twelve can even make it five feet without bursting into tears or trying to flee against their better judgment.

Little Miss Bubbly clasps Memrie's hands in hers and continues babbling away, nearly forgetting the other half of her job. Eventually, she perks up, hopping to her place at the boys' bowl and stirring it as if she controls the ability and skill level of her tribute.

However, my attention is set on Memrie, who sobs into her hands the second the cameras divert from her. The shoulder-less dress doesn't do her all that good in drying her tears, but she makes it work, stifling her sobs and tears before the cameras refocus on her with her skin.

"Kyung Jiang! Exotic!"

The boy, appearing to be fifteen or sixteen, shows no sign of resistance or even fear, aside from the tears welling in his eyes. The aura around him was not afraid, but forlorn. It's like he would have volunteered for this if he hadn't been Reaped. I know these kids all too well. My own brother was one.

One of the kids who see the Games as an escape.

I grit my teeth as Kyung ascends the stage, shaking hands with Memrie, both of their broken smiles matching at heart. These are the kids that I fight for, the ones who've lost it all to the Games or the Capitol as a whole. These are the kids I'm willing to sacrifice myself for.

But I will not act on impulse like so many of the ones I held dear did in years past. Until an army is willing to sacrifice itself for the revolt I have plotted, I must wait.

Even though everything inside me tells me to do something, to fight something for the lost causes.

* * *

**A/N: And there are the first four districts: Two, Five, Nine, and Twelve! The order was randomized (to a certain extent), so it doesn't insinuate anything about placings. **

* * *

**Which of these eight stood out to you?**

**Favorite POV?**

* * *

**~just wanted to throw it out there that although it is holiday, drumline camp and summer school don't really change my schedule all that much. Actually, when summer school starts, it'll get worse ;_; ~**

* * *

**Until next time!**


	4. Things I Don't Understand

_"I can't decide wrong from right, day from night, dark from light."_

* * *

**District One**

**Alevaline Hudson, Trainee**

* * *

Today is my day.

Mother brushes my shoulder length curls, cooing about pride as she's been the past few weeks. From afar, I can make out Father's deep, rich laughter as he speaks with the neighbors just out in the yard, gushing about none other than me.

For once, I've done something that warrants their affection and appreciation of my existence. Of all my eighteen years of life, I've been nothing more than Ariella's bratty sister, but that is no more. Ariella can't disturb me from the grave.

Despair simply isn't something I know how to feel. It was her inadequate training that put her in the grave, and it was her overconfidence that clouded her vision to see the betrayal that was destined to happen. Even her ditzy district partner had enough brains to get out of there.

I will not make the same mistake.

Mother pauses in her brushing and lays her head on my shoulder, grinning ear to ear as she sees the reflection of the two of us in the mirror. "My baby girl, all grown up," she whispers, pushing a stray strand of caramel hair behind my ear.

"Mother," I groan, shouldering her off. "I'm eighteen, not seven."

"Sue me for forgetting," she laughs. "Oh, I've got to tell Vy; my own daughter, chosen for the Games! Oh don't you know the honor of it all? Extravagancies for months will be coming our way, my dear!"

Her incessant chatter never stops, but I can't bring myself to tell her to shut up on today of all days. As much as I try to remind her that this is my day, she can't lose the idea that this is also hers. Mainly hers.

Sometimes, I miss having Ariella here to take the brunt of her voice for me, but not long after do I remember how I was the forgotten one where the roles should've clearly been switched. Ariella stole my life from me for the past seventeen years.

It's about time I won it back.

"Oh dear, oh dear, sweetie, we mustn't wait much longer," Mother coos, ushering me from the back towards the front door. I try – and fail – to withhold hissing at her, but she is insistent on being ever so slightly fashionably late on my big day.

The Town Square is easily within walking distance of my humble abode, if you could call the three-story suburban paradise humble. The crowd is impressive; easily a pack of a thousand has pooled within and outside of the Reaping Ropes.

Father pulls me into a quick hug that Mother, of course, wheedles her way into.

"My perfect family," Mother breathes into Father's shirt, still stroking my hair irksomely. I struggle my way out, offering Father a sympathetic smile before hurrying over to the blood station.

Before and after the woman pricks my finger, I can feel the eyes trained on me. With emotions from envy to awe painted in their eyes, I feel it blossoming in me. What it is, exactly, I am unsure, but I feel various emotions welling inside. Pride. Anxiety.

Fear.

Of all things, I am not impulsive. For weeks, I've taken the time to understand the possible consequences, but until now, I hadn't a doubt of what to do. To volunteer wasn't just my duty; it was my destiny.

But now, as I find my spot within the Reaping Ropes, eyes still locked on me with everyone knowing that I have been selected, all my dreams and aspirations…are they worth less than a one in twenty-four chance?

Am I ready to throw my life away?

I shake my head, abandoning my doubts as Mayor Perez, clearly affected by the recent suicide of his daughter Carmen, stumbles to the stage. His eyes are bloodshot with the aftereffects of alcohol, and as much as my heart goes out to him, all my head wants him to do is hurry up before second doubts begin to bubble.

"This year, we commemorate the Thirtieth Anniversary of the Hunger Games," he mumbles, glaring at the audience as they cheer and whoop. As they continue to effectively mute him with their outcries, Perez rushes through the Treaty of Treason and dully honors Trapeze Romero and Sequin France of mentoring the tributes this year.

And in record time, Perez is off the stage, and the bubbly escort is squeaking into the microphone. Her words flow far too quickly for me to catch, but every time she looks at us expectantly, the crowd responds full-force.

"And without further ado, it is with honor that I say our male tribute for the Games is Calin Forsenary!" She searches expectantly for the volunteer, Sticker or something, but he holds out. I inwardly flinch as I imagine the rage the Academy would display to all its trainees if not one, but both of its selected volunteers backed down…Sticker, please.

Calin, who isn't completely pathetic at an average height with an average build, still shivers in the limelight, silently begging for someone to take his place. It happens just as he ascends the first step of the staircase:

"I volunteer." The statement is laced with boredom, not the extravagant outcry the Capitol expects out of One. I find myself craning my neck like the rest of District One to find the owner of the voice.

Only when he slinks up the stage do I actually get a glance at him. His demeanor is uninterested and lax, as if he'd signed up for tesserae, not for the Games. His skin is dark, but it's his eyes that catch my attention. Behind the unmotivated front, I see a spark of ferocity that is hidden behind his brown eyes.

"Excellent!" the escort cries, beaming so bright I feel the need to shield my eyes. "And the ladies-"

My heart drops as I watch the escort daintily pluck a name. I dutifully make my way outside the rope to give up my life in the name of my family.

But someone else beats me to it.

Before the name is even announced, the voice bursts from somewhere in front of me: "I volunteer!"

At first, instincts kick in, and I'm pounding the pavement to find the insulant fool who dares steal my spotlight, and then…then I realize that this is my chance. To have a family, to have a life that isn't run by the Games.

So as I watch the girl swoop up to the stage, not angst, but relief pumps through my veins.

"My name is Ceira Villaine," she announces impishly, throwing in a wink for good measure.

I smile as I step back to my spot behind the Ropes. Thank you, Ceira Villaine.

Thank you for letting me take my life into my own hands.

* * *

**District Six**

**Anya Moraine, Mayor**

* * *

Even though the skies above my district are clear and bright, the overall feeling of gloom can't be shaken.

The soot that is permanently etched on the faces of my people hides the yellowing skin underneath. The Morphling epidemic spread throughout the Industrial Districts like wildfire, and mine was certainly not an exception. Rumor has it that the plague-like drug spreads through inter-District smuggling, but truthfully, no one cares as long as they get their fix. More than half of my district is trapped in the shell of a life that Morphling leaves its victim in.

And I stand among them.

The needle is in and out of the largest vein in my wrist within seconds, and I conceal it in my simple, purple dress with long gloves that hide the evidence on my skin. Soon enough, the edge of the sunlight is faded to a dim light. My thoughts quickly muddle into nothingness as I put on a brave face and push past the curtain that separates me from the citizens of my district.

I get no round of applause; I get no acknowledgement of my existence, save the handful of paranoid, eligible children who'd notice a rock if it was a shade too dark. I find my seat quickly, eager to get away from the attention of even these dozen kids in fear of them noticing.

For whenever I meet their eyes, I can't help but pull my gloves farther up my arm. Surely, they know, but I must try my best to hide it. I cannot be given away, who knows the consequences?

I recoil as the seat beside me is filled. I know without need of turning to know who it is; this stage has only held two people since the fourteenth Games. Argeliba meets my gaze indifferently before returning to scoping out the district, in search of the next two victims of the Games.

"I thought your job was to help them, not scare them into silence," I mutter as she glares a particularly lengthy time at one boy in the thirteen-year old section.

"And I thought your job was to stay clean in the name of saving the rest of the scumbags here. Clearly, we were both mistaken," Argeliba returns calmly, but the comment has easily gotten me to shut up.

"How'd you know?" I whisper, hardly loud enough for Argeliba to hear.

Her hardened eyes meet mine with no sense of life ever being in them.

"You don't question my methods, and I won't question yours. Believe it or not, I actually help these kids. Could you say the same?"

I open my mouth to respond, but close it as Argeliba turns back to the audience, eyeing the eligible one by one.

No, I realize. I don't help these people. I don't tell them to stop what they're doing, and I don't tell them that they're destroying their lives each and every day. I can't.

Not until I fix mine first.

The camera man gives me the signal to start up from afar. My palms naturally clam up, trying to no avail to hide both my unease and the healing scars that will never truly go away. Any miniscule hints of chatter have been wiped clean as I teeter the microphone in my hands.

"Hello, District Six," I begin, watching as hundreds of faces meet mine expectantly. Curiously.

Analytically.

They're searching for any signs… Stop it.

"Today, we honor the sacrifice and forgiveness of the Capitol in giving two of our finest into the Thirtieth Annual Hunger Games."

I try not to notice how yellow my skin looks, even with the makeup, or how the crowd has every single eye locked on me.

The Treaty of Treason comes far too late; everyone in Panem understands that no one cares about the Capitol's propaganda, not here, at least. Their attention is diverted from me to any other thing in the vicinity, and for that, I'm grateful.

"Please welcome Corienth Aris, representative of both the Capitol and District Six," I rush, laying the microphone back onto its stand before nearly jogging back to my seat, where Argeliba smirks at me.

"Convincing," she murmurs tauntingly.

The one upside of the pulsing drug in my veins is that it doesn't just numb me. It gives me the power to numb myself. Then and there, I tune not only Argeliba out, but Corienth, and the rest of the world.

I dull the situation as I sink into the soft cushion of the chair until the girl on death row is announced.

"Sia Aether!"

Eyes shut, I await the cries of an addict, or worse, the cries of a family whose child has been ripped away from them.

Instead, silence continues to fill the Square. Then, a gasp. I brace myself for the waterworks, but they don't come. I frown, opening my eyes to a beaming girl, sixteen or so, who struts to the stage with verve and confidence.

My frown tightens as she arrives cheerfully at the stage. "Thank you for this opportunity," she says into the microphone.

Corienth, Argeliba, and I share a moment of shock as she stands primly besides Corienth. He recovers the fastest out of the three of us, walking to the boys' bowl.

Argeliba and I, however, are focused on Sia, waiting for her front to crumble once the camera flickers off. It never wavers. Surely, when she is given the cover of the train, she'll break...

"Rian Shanter!"

The eighteen-year old section parts for a bulky boy who searches the rows hungrily as he goes, searching for a sibling or a girlfriend undoubtedly. Quickly, a squadron of Peacekeepers descends upon him, speeding up the process roughly.

As Rian and Sia stand side-by-side, neither plagued by Morphling, at least not clearly, I make myself a promise.

If Argeliba, the bitterest creature to be born unto this planet, can help two kids, I can salvage the remains of my district.

* * *

**District Seven**

**Lambert Carter, Victor**

* * *

What am I doing wrong?

Adam would chastise me, but it must be me. Since the first year I have taken role as mentor – I volunteered for the position, naturally - the tributes have been consistently dying in the bloodbath, or betrayed not soon after.

The most tenacious had entered the Games under his guidance and they'd fallen so constantly that the only reasonable explanation is that I've let them down when they needed me the most. I haven't done enough for the tributes that could've made it out of their arenas.

I haven't been good enough.

The small, guilty part of me says that I've done all that I can, that they haven't been good enough, but it's nonsense. Some of the bulkiest and most well-prepared outer-district tributes have come out of District Seven. At the time of my victory, I was a scrawny fifteen-year old. Adam, the same. Wava was a pixie at the mere age of fourteen when she won.

No, the tributes have been adequate to say the least. It is the fault of mine as to why they aren't beside me today.

Speaking of the pixie, Wava gingerly ascends the staircase before taking her respective seat as mentor beside me. She offers a small smile that I return with a nod, leaving the two of us in silence that I hadn't expected from the bubbly loudmouth.

Not that I have much room for that idea – I've yet to mentor alongside Wava, but based on her Games and her overall demeanor, it's just a matter of time before she's going to go out of her way for a kick.

"Would you like the boy or the girl?" Wava breaks the silence as she rises slightly from her former position.

"Excuse me?" I quirk an eyebrow at her.

Wava rolls her eyes. "Darling, would you like to mentor the guy or the girl?" she says dauntingly slowly, enunciating each syllable heavily.

I scoff. "Isn't it a bit more reasonable to select our tributes after we've seen them, so we can better fit their strengths to our abilities?"

Wava stifles a laugh, which bubbles out of her mouth anyway. "You say that now; wait until you have a crying twelve-year old girl latched onto you."

"You weren't far off that when you were reaped," I return, which earns a shrug in response.

"Strategy is far from cowardice."

Before I can respond, the new escort, filling in the shoes of the late Princeton, is announcing her name that nobody truly cares about. Her getup is per Capitol standard with the theme of…are those birds or fish?

No matter, her squeaking comes to a halt as she makes her way to the girls' bowl.

"Naomi Callahan!"

The usual search for the tribute occurs, ending with the fifteen-year old section parting way for a petite girl who looks thirteen, tops. Her blonde hair curls past her shoulders like a doll's.

Despite her appearance, Naomi holds her head high as she walks to the podium. The emotion on her face reads not confidence, but resolve. And while I can notice the occasional hint of where her composure falters, her performance is impressive, to say the least.

I can't say I held myself that well at her age, walking up to the podium. Perhaps…perhaps she can do what the others could not.

"Porter Wayne!"

Immediately, a wail of anguish rings through the Square from outside the Ropes. The screamer is a middle-aged woman.

The search for the tribute is nearly nonexistent – the district seems familiar with Mr. Wayne, seeing as I can see disappointment and sorrow across the rows of eligible tributes. I sigh profoundly.

It's easier when everyone hates their guts.

The boy that is isolated has the signature Seven look to him – brown hair and a decent build. Peacekeepers move to confront him, but the boy shoos them away, awfully politely after being called for his death.

With each scream from whom I assume to be his mother, Porter flinches, but does not falter. He is easier to read than Naomi; the hints of sadness are concealed less, but to remain strong warrants acknowledgement in any situation.

Like Naomi, I'm shocked to see the boy walk up to the stage with poise and dignity; even the strongest of Seven usually end up at least sniffling over their own deaths.

A small grin blossoms on my face as the two shake hands without a hint of backing down. Porter is gallant, offering a smile to Naomi that she unsurely returns.

"Allies. They'll ally, for sure," Wava murmurs beside me, and for once, I actually agree with the airhead.

"I suppose that makes us allies, too, then," I add with a slight smirk.

Porter and Naomi are ushered to the Justice Building, but neither show any sign of fleeing or running from what's ahead of them. The former nods reassuringly to the latter as they open the doors to say goodbye.

"Thank goodness for that; I'm not sure how long I could deal with you mouthing off nonsense," Wava comments, flipping her hair for good measure.

"I'm quite sure you have the roles reversed," I mutter, but beneath that, I feel hope for this year being different blossoming in my chest.

Because for once, I won't be alone if it all falls down. I try to chastise myself for thinking so pessimistically, but at this point, it's just a safety net.

Now, I'll have someone to mourn with.

* * *

**District Eight**

**Agatha Dupree, Retiree**

* * *

"My money's on the Avali kid," says Heron, nodding towards the sniveling boy in the Ropes.

I shrug indifferently at her announcement, but I inwardly curse. The Avali family has been reaped left and right throughout their existence; not one of the six children has made it to nineteen.

He was my bet.

Some call it a sin, spending my withering days as I do, but what's the crime of making a game out of a game? The only other option for me and the others of us who don't have anyone else to help us on our path to death, ultimately, is to wilt in silence. I suppose they'd want us to die sad and alone, than have us innocently betting on which of the rats goes off to die.

And if it's a sin, who cares? Add it to the list of reasons I'm going to hell. It's not like I have any reason to help the kids. And even if I did, what am I going to do? Bring juice boxes for when they get sent to die?

Truly, I cannot fathom the wayward thoughts of the buffoons that surround me.

"I'll take the Joyce gal," Elliot states as he takes a swig of whatever it is that he keeps in his flask. The odor used to make me gag every time I went near the idiot, but you get used to it after a while.

While these people may be putrid, at least they can understand me.

I remove my purse from under me, eyeing each qualified tribute as I remove my allotted betting money. The Ullian boy may be only fourteen, but he's taken more tesserae than any child I've seen take. But, the Polivan girl took her fair share at eighteen.

"I'll put my money on Lapsus," I mutter, tossing my money in the pile.

Some scoff at my decision, but any veterans know that truly, the odds of anyone winning are so low that it doesn't really matter who you pick.

Something in my gut told me the fragile Asian girl is going to be crushed soon, and there aren't any tumbling factories in sight.

The others place their bids. I tune them out as I look around, glaring at each individual child.

It's amusing, truthfully, watching them fidget. Back in the day, I assume I was the same, but I've lived my life. That merits some sinful fun, no?

"Shut up!" Aralie barks as the procession music starts up. "Pack of idiots," she mutters, loud enough only for me and Heron to hear. Heron chuckles and I sigh, shaking my head. In response, Aralie hushes us, again.

Despite her claim to be the most removed out of the pack of us, Aralie is the only one to give a shit about anyone within the Ropes. Her nephew, or something or another, is in there somewhere.

"It's his last year," she mumbles, rubbing her hands anxiously.

"At least nobody bet on him," I point with a half-shrug.

Heron frowns.

"I thought Leven did."

Aralie's expression worsens severely, garnering Heron a death glare from me.

"Not like we ever get them right."

Her demeanor is far from calm, but the reassurance at least makes her look like she isn't going to jump off a building any time soon.

Blaring trumpets of the Capitol's propaganda stop me from scolding Heron or trying to reason with Aralie. The mayor – Child or something – reads the Treaty of Treason with enough vigor for me to see her as a Capitolite instead of a resident of Eight.

Just as I'm getting comfy in my chair for a nice, long nap, the mayor steps down and introduces the escort. The woman, if you could call her that, is covered head to toe in both gears and vines. It puts her not as a machine nor a plant, but somewhere in between.

"District Eight, what a pleasure it is to see you all again," she says with what appears to be sincere delight. "After all these years, I've grown so attached here, and it's painful for me to say I will be retiring from serving you all next year." She sniffles into the microphone, stifling a sob. "It's all so emotional!"

Before anyone can throw a tomato – which would be awfully fitting – Gears and Vines continues, "Well, since this is my last year, let's wrap this out with a bang! Our boys will be first, as always!" she cheers, clacking her heels against the wooden stage.

Gears makes no point of creating drama with her selection of the slip, taking the first one off the top.

"Zeph Tate!"

Two pairs of wails are prominent as the thirteen-year old section clears up for a wispy boy to be revealed. The boy is sniffling and obviously crying. Abruptly, the sniffling halts as he stops to correct his hair, and makes his way to the podium.

Beside me, Aralie offers me a tight smile; one mixed with relief and remorse of said relief. Nobody ever wins the Reaping, but people do escape.

Otherwise, a handful of curses behind me are made as those who bet on another boy are proven incorrect. Nobody ever bets on someone as young as the selected boy is.

Gears saunters over to the girls' side, plucking another slip off the top.

"Sienna Lapsus!"

I stifle a cry of victory as the young girl bewilderedly ascends the podium, turning and jumping as if she's going to get jumped at any given moment.

All around me, everyone curses as I turn and rake in the jackpot. Just as the tributes depart, I catch one last glance of District Eight's reps. A sniffling oddball and a paranoid freak.

Once again, District Eight is doomed.

I grin anyway.

If only I could bring myself to care.

"Beer's on me tonight!"

* * *

**A/N: It's been a whole month, sorry about that ;_;**

**So, I'll be finishing up Blood Splatters before we see the last batch, but hopefully, that won't take a month XD**

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**Thoughts on the tributes?**

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**Until next time!**


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